


The Mouth Is A Dangerous Thing

by moonix



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 23:30:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10501710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonix/pseuds/moonix
Summary: This is how it starts, lately: words on an altar, tension thick like incense between them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Um... yeah. What it says on the tin. There is porn. It probably takes place a couple of years after canon, so Andrew and Neil are more comfortable with each other and have made some progress in bed.
> 
> (I guess I should warn that there is a reference to like... coming on someone's face? But it doesn't actually happen?)

“I want to blow you.”

Neil lays the words out for Andrew like an offering, then flops back against the many pillows piled up on Andrew's bed and grins; cheeky, irreverent. Somewhere along the way, he's lost his shirt. Andrew is still dressed, black from his socks to the collar of his turtleneck, and Neil watches appreciatively from his position as Andrew considers the suggestion. This is how it starts, lately: words on an altar, tension thick like incense between them.

Andrew crosses and uncrosses his arms over his wide chest. His hair – freshly shaved at the sides, the rest now long enough to tie back if he can be bothered, which he can't, today – tumbles down over his neck, curling slightly at the ends. Neil wants to touch it. Andrew doesn't like him pulling at it, but he does like it when Neil plays with it, and the occasional playful tug can make him shiver on a good day, in the right moment. Neil hopes today is a good day.

“Fine,” Andrew says with a lopsided shrug. Neil nods, accepting this, and curls both index fingers at Andrew in a challenge, beckoning him over to the bed. They're taking a well-deserved break from Kevin this weekend, and the house is quiet and snug around them, the musty smell of abandonment almost gone after Andrew threw open all the windows and Neil made coffee. The bathroom is still trailing steam from a recent shower.

“Clothes off,” Neil purrs, a question more than a demand, “glasses on.”

Andrew rolls his eyes and tugs his shirt off with one fluid motion, letting it drop to the floor. His armbands are already on the bedside table, clunky with the weight of his knives. He peels his socks off, then hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his sweatpants, and Neil's mouth goes dry, then very wet in quick succession.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, reaching out and snagging the bright purple and orange striped fabric of Andrew's underpants. They were an unofficial Christmas present, a ten pack of the most lurid shades and patterns Neil could find, because it stirs up the most ridiculous little thrill in Neil's stomach to know that underneath all the black, hidden and invisible, Andrew is wearing – that.

Andrew bats his hand away and steps out of his sweatpants. He crooks an eyebrow at him in silent confusion when Neil remains lying down, waiting for him to move, to get on his knees, but Neil has different plans today.

“Want you up here,” he murmurs, getting comfortable and arching his back against the sheets. Andrew tracks the movement with his eyes, gets obviously distracted by the way Neil's own sweatpants ride indecently low on his hips. Neil briefly wishes he had a proper happy trail, the way Andrew does, and reaches out to encourage Andrew's hips to get closer.

“You're especially irritating today,” Andrew tells him through gritted teeth and a huff, but climbs over him anyway. Neil cups his palms over Andrew's smooth hipbones, pushes and pulls until Andrew is bracing his own body weight above him with one knee on each side of Neil's head. His hair slips forward over his neck and Neil catches the tail-end of it, curling it around his finger with a smirk. He doesn't miss the small shiver that races down Andrew's back.

“I like you like this,” he says, easy and heated. He knows Andrew appreciates his bluntness, even if he pulls a face at him for it.

“I hate you,” Andrew reminds him, dropping a condom on his face.

“I know,” Neil whispers. “Brace yourself on the headboard or against the wall.”

Andrew glares down at him again, but lets his hands settle over the wood of his headboard. One of his fingers idly traces the markings carved into it by bored blades, like a reminder that this is a safe space, and Neil takes his time pulling Andrew's underpants down over his erection, careful not to let them snag. His bare skin is hot to the touch and just the slightest bit sweat-damp, always such a contrast to how cold the rest of his body feels, and Neil hums as he presses his palms flat over the places where Andrew's thighs join his hips. He rolls the condom down lovingly, smears his thumb through Andrew's happy trail, then slides down a little further, but Andrew's hand on his face rudely stops him before he can put his mouth on him.

“If you want to stop,” Andrew says, voice gravelly and pitched even lower than usual, “pinch my thigh.”

“I won't,” Neil mumbles from underneath the salty leather of Andrew's palm, “but yeah, I will.”

He licks a fat wet stripe up Andrew's hand and Andrew withdraws it with a hiss, and then Neil takes the tip of his cock in his mouth and _sucks_ , exerting gentle pressure on the side of Andrew's hip with one hand, until Andrew sinks forward like a full-body sigh. It's still a bit of an awkward position, and Neil has to strain his neck every time he moves, saliva rolling from the corners of his mouth and smudging down his jaw, pooling in the cheerful fabric around Andrew's thighs, his knee digging into Neil's shoulder. It's a good kind of awkward though, the kind that makes a mess of Andrew's breath and coaxes a tremble from the depths of his thighs, and Neil gives it his all, hums and moans around Andrew's cock to remind him that he wants this, he wants this, he wants this.

Carefully, Neil lets his hands slide around to the first soft swell of Andrew's ass and guides his hips into a cautious thrust. He nearly gags, but remembers to relax his throat and adjust the angle, and the way Andrew's mouth works, open and wet, around sounds he won't yet let himself make, is enough to make him try again.

Andrew looks down at him, his glasses sliding down the sweaty bridge of his nose a little, upper body bent uncomfortably in the small space between where he's pressed his arms against the wall now and where Neil's hands are still keeping him in place, urging him into a jolting, rocking, messy rhythm. Neil is breathing fast where he can, the twitchy sounds spilling from him asking for more, though he knows Andrew is leery of giving it to him, of giving up his self-control.

Neil makes sure to wink at him. Andrew lets his forehead drop against the wall with a thud and swears silently, lips twisting into a shaky sneer.

Feeling smug, Neil lets him hit the back of his throat again, sputtering a bit and soothing his fingertips over the dip at the base of Andrew's spine and the small mole right next to it. Andrew shivers again, then leans back, removing his cock from Neil's greedy lips and slapping a hand down over Neil's face again, his breath hard and heaving.

“Need a break?” Neil whispers, even though he can't see Andrew, and lets his hands drop to his sides. He'd like to wipe the spit off his own face, but his arms are trapped under Andrew's thighs. When Andrew takes his hand away, his skin is wet and glistening with it, and Neil keens a little at the loss of him.

“I can't,” Andrew grunts, the words squashed and low as he forces them out between tight teeth.

“That's okay,” Neil says calmly. “You could jack off? I'd like to watch you, like this.”

“And what,” Andrew snorts, “come on your face?”

“If you want,” Neil smirks. He doesn't particularly mind the thought – he can get cleaned up after, and while he gets why Andrew insists on the condoms even for blowjobs, he doesn't think getting spunk on his face is going to be a problem so long as he keeps his mouth shut. Which, admittedly, might be a bit of a challenge.

“You're gross,” Andrew huffs, but peels off the condom after stroking himself down a few times and tosses it over the side of the bed.

“Give me your hand,” Neil says. When Andrew presses it down over his mouth again, Neil gathers more spit in his mouth and licks his palm, sucks on the base of his thumb and twists his tongue through the gaps between Andrew's fingers until Andrew curses again and wraps that hand back around his cock, starting up a furious pace, the way Neil knows Andrew likes it. His other hand is still braced against the wall, and his face goes slack again, his breath rough. Neil looks for the tell-tale tug on Andrew's upper lip, the way his eyebrows twitch up like a plea; strokes his hands down the backs of Andrew's quivering thighs and murmurs encouraging nonsense until Andrew stops breathing altogether for long moments and then pants harshly, suddenly, little sounds of strain rushing out with the air, not enough to qualify as something so big as a groan, but all the more intriguing for it.

“You're doing so good, Andrew,” Neil whispers, “you look so gorgeous, I could watch you like this all day. Want you to make yourself feel good, Andrew. Want you to come.”

“Shut up,” Andrew grinds out, the resentment in his voice washed out and faded like denim, soft threads coming loose around the ripped edges. Then, again, half-broken: “I can't.”

“Okay,” Neil whispers. “Okay.”

Slowly, Andrew sits back, his hand still fisted around himself but not moving anymore. His thigh muscles are locked up tight under Neil's hands.

“Fuck,” Andrew mutters, sounding stressed and defeated, and rolls off him and onto his side, facing away from him. Neil gives him a moment before he turns on his side as well and sneaks a hand over to where Andrew has tucked his own tight against his chest. He pries the fingers open and inserts his between the spaces, holding it lightly.

“It's okay,” Neil says again. “Wanna try again, or stop?”

Andrew doesn't reply, and they lie like this for a little while. Neil nuzzles his nose into Andrew's sweaty hair, pleased when Andrew doesn't complain.

“Andrew,” Neil says. “I need to know if it's still yes.”

“Yes,” Andrew sighs, irritation draining the word dry until it cracks. They've come a long way from “it's no until it's yes” to “it's yes until it's no” and Neil knows that there will always be days that are a great big no, is getting better at recognising them, at knowing when Andrew is pushing his own boundaries just to prove a point; but today isn't one of them, and Andrew tends to take it as an insult to his progress when Neil is overly cautious like this.

“Alright,” Neil says soothingly, “thank you.”

He rolls over and grabs some lube from the bedside drawer, coating his hands in it until they're slick. Then he pokes and prods at Andrew and sits back against the headboard with his legs wide open so that Andrew can sit between them, his back against Neil's chest. They've tried this a few times before, and Andrew falls more easily into the familiar routine now he recognises what Neil is doing. His purple and orange underpants are still shoved down around his thighs, but Neil isn't going to bother with that. Once Andrew is comfortable, Neil kisses the side of his head, enjoying the feel of the hair buzzed short there, and wraps both of his hands around Andrew's cock, squeezing them tight the way Andrew prefers.

“Go,” he whispers against Andrew's hair. Andrew digs his fingers into the sheets either side of them and his hips stutter out a few experimental thrusts into Neil's clasped hands. He must have already been close, earlier – skirting the edge but never quite able to get there. It happens. Neil finds it reassuring – he's not always quick to come either, and it takes him an eternity without Andrew's help.

He lets his mouth trail over the side of Andrew's throat, suckling gently, and Andrew lets out a shivery breath and bucks up a few more times before slapping Neil's hands away and taking over again, back to his usual brutal pace.

“That's it,” Neil murmurs against the tattoo on Andrew's neck, the one that is always just out of sight beneath his collar. He puts one hand on Andrew's stomach and feels the hard muscles there, and Andrew makes an almost angry sound – he hates that Neil knows it's a soft spot, that Neil touches him there when he wants him riled up. Neil smiles into the crook of his neck and hums.

“Almost there now. So good, Andrew, god, you're so amazing. I know you can make yourself come. Just let go. I'm here, you can let go. Just lean back and let me hold you up.”

“Hate you,” Andrew pants, tensing up; Neil can see his toes curl into the sheets and nearly cries out when Andrew's free hand clamps down hard on his thigh, but then Andrew is coming, completely still now, curled in on himself and biting down on a breath, like he refuses to lean on Neil just to punish him for saying that.

“Yeah,” Neil hums into the side of his neck, “but you get off on it, too.”

“Shut up,” Andrew mutters. Then, when he's caught his breath and snatched a box of tissues off the bedside table to scrub viciously at himself, he adds: “Your dirty talk is a fucking travesty, Josten. No wonder it takes me ages. Next time I'll gag you.”

It's an empty threat, one that Andrew has made countless times.

“Go take a shower,” Neil tells him smugly. “I'll change the sheets and order some food.”

“Wash your fucking hands first,” Andrew huffs. “They're gross. Everything about you is gross. Maybe _you_ need a shower.”

“Maybe I do,” Neil smirks. “Maybe we should both take one.”

Andrew glares, then stands abruptly and shoves his purple and orange striped underpants down before throwing them at Neil's face and stalking out of the room. Neil takes it as the invitation it is, and follows.

 


End file.
